What do you catch, self, when deep sea fishing for darkest thoughts?
A Mariana trench in your mind, dividing the was, the will be. You are the schism. Where are the band-aids?
Blood on your skin from digging through coral, blood on your hands. Not yours, and not your guilt. Remember.
Pain, there is pain, in this head-box, locked away with animal teeth. Prisons of water are prisons for you, not it. How could you forget? It guards your bedroom, your periphery, your solitude.
Climb the ocean, up and out. Clouds have come.
Face to the rain, you are washed clean, self. Deep sea ocean slime slides from you; let it.
Rifle through your filing cabinet skull for the kindest thought, take it out, memorize. Breathe the atoms of its paper. Feel the texture. This is you, this gift for you, this moment. Dig for this.
You are not gentle, self, with your mind; you leave bruises. Flatten your palm on this memory of good, ease the muscles. These knuckles are for fighting enemies; you are not the enemy.
Tomorrow you are rubber bullets and the slingshot.
Today you are fine china, stacked; walk softly. Wash gently.